


Victims of Circumstance - 3/20 – Past, Present, and Future

by motsureru



Series: Victims of Circumstance [3]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-09
Updated: 2008-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-11 17:41:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motsureru/pseuds/motsureru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers for Season 1 and Season 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Victims of Circumstance - 3/20 – Past, Present, and Future

**Author's Note:**

> An enormous amount of thanks to [](http://etoile-dunord.livejournal.com/profile)[**etoile_dunord**](http://etoile-dunord.livejournal.com/), my lovely beta. <3 Also, [](http://hugh.livejournal.com/profile)[**hugh**](http://hugh.livejournal.com/) is going to be amazing and provide art to go along with certain chapters, as needed.

**Teaser:** _What goodness Mohinder felt he’d brought with him to this quest had been eradicated in New York. What was left of it remained here, in Chennai, where he hoped to keep it from the dangerous battleground that had become his life._  

 

.3 Past, Present, and Future

 

“So what do you do for a living, Gabriel?” Anjali asked, pouring three cups of tea gracefully to complement the food now laid out on their long dining room table. Sylar imagined it was the type of table meant for dinner parties, which wouldn’t have surprised him, given Chandra’s profession. He imagined the man had thrown galas for colleagues, invited important men over to discuss theory often. Here, in a room lined with photographs and warm colors, there had been life, once.

“Gabriel?”

Sylar sat up a little straighter with a start. “-Ah, I’m sorry, I… faded off there for a second. I… restore timepieces.” He cleared his throat a little, nodding in thanks to her as he lifted his cup and took a sip to distract himself. The spices were very different than his own teas he used to keep at home, but Sylar found he liked them.

Mohinder was sitting across from Sylar, next to his mother. The head of the table remained empty for the man who would never sit at it again. Mohinder stared at Sylar as he spoke, eyes a warning once again to watch his words and use as few as possible. Sylar was more or less keeping to that, making the lunch conversation feel forced and tense. Only Mohinder’s mother seemed unfazed, turning a blind eye to the potentially awkward situation, ever the ideal hostess.

“Timepieces? So you are... a watchmaker? Did you and Mohinder meet in New York?”

Mohinder reached across the table for a piece of fruit, pushing a smile in between them. “Yes, Mother. We did. Gabriel’s decided to travel with me for a while. We toured all around England last month. It was good to see the university again.”

Anjali sat back in her seat, putting the kettle aside as Mohinder had the subject, and looked between Mohinder and Sylar (whose eyes were on his plate to avoid Mohinder’s gaze). “I see,” she replied, “A vacation must have been pleasant. You so rarely take time off from your work, Mohinder. Are you a part of his research then, Gabriel?”

“Yes-”

“No.” –Mohinder’s voice overlaid Sylar’s, and the two lifted their faces to stare the other down with faint looks of annoyance. Mohinder was the one to glance over at his mother, giving a half smile. “Not exactly. Gabriel’s going to help me with a bit of my lab work. I need an extra hand around, and he wanted to travel the world, so…”

“How very nice.” Anjali smiled warmly over at Sylar. Although the look was plain enough, Sylar could see behind her eyes the knowing touch of a mother who saw more than she let known. Feigning ignorance was something Sylar was quite familiar with. “I hope you’ll find Chennai as exciting as Europe.”

Sylar nodded in return. “I am… it’s very nice here. I’ve never been anywhere so lively before. New York’s just not quite the same. I can’t thank you enough for letting me stay here while we’re in the city.”

Anjali only smiled with her own nod. She took a sip of her tea, and then paused suddenly, looking over at her son. “Ah, that reminds me, Mohinder. I called Mira’s mother this morning.”

All the expression seemed to drain from Mohinder’s face, and he stared at her for a moment as though he was being punished. Sylar could hear the man’s heartbeat spiking irregularly, and it made his own eyes narrow slightly as he listened.

“Mira? Why would you contact Mira’s mother? That’s-”

“Do not look at me like that, Mohinder,” she warned in a softly scolding, but clearly threatening tone. “Two or three weeks ago, Mira called me, wanting to talk with you. She said it was urgent, but I did not know how to contact you, since you always call me. So you should get together with Mira and see what she has to say. I hear her new job at the genetics lab is going very well.”

Mohinder seemed to detect the sly undertone to her words, and something Sylar couldn’t discern crossed his features. Sylar imagined he saw gears turning in the man’s head, but to what ends, he was unsure. Knowing it was thought of Mira, some ex-girlfriend clearly not gone from his mind, made Sylar bristle inside a little. He didn’t like the idea of that reunion at all.

“I’ll give her a call after I talk with the accountant, I suppose,” Mohinder murmured into his cup of tea as he sipped. His grip on the cup was tight, and it was a wonder the fragile object didn’t simply break.

“Do you have a wife back home, Gabriel?” Anjali asked, the connection subtle but obvious. She said it in a motherly way, gaze side-stepping Mohinder’s look to address his companion.

Sylar looked taken aback for a moment, almost flustered. He too, avoided the intense scrutiny of Mohinder’s eyes as he considered how to answer, lips slightly parted. Finally, they curved up softly, taking on the sort of bashful, charming expression he might have once worn under the guise of a musician. “I’m afraid not, Mrs. Suresh. The only one who’d miss me if I were gone is right here.” He took a drink of tea through that smile, feeling the glower of Mohinder’s eyes burn right through him. Alleviating his frustrations by playing this game was far too satisfying.

Mohinder stood up from the table, picking up his plate and pushing in his chair. “Mother, I need to shower and get changed for my meeting. Gabriel was saying he’d like to nap too; jetlag can be terrible the first time traveling.”

“Are you sure? You two barely ate a thing,” Anjali replied, looking between them.

Sylar’s eyes followed Mohinder’s stiff movements, and then he smiled. “It’s quite alright, Mrs. Suresh. I think the airplane food didn’t agree with me. This was delicious, though. Thank you.” Sylar stood up as well, reaching for his plate.

“No no, let me get these. You two be on your way,” she insisted.

“Are you sure? Mohinder and I could-”

“She won’t let you help, -Gabriel. I’ll show you where some clean towels are, in case you want to shower.” Mohinder leaned over and kissed his mother on the cheek, then walked around her and to Sylar, waiting for him to move towards the exit too.

Giving a nod to Mohinder’s mother, Sylar turned and walked out the door. Once they were far enough from sight, he felt Mohinder’s hand grasp his upper arm tightly, pushing him along in a painful grip, as though he were a child being taken to time-out. Sylar held back the smirk that clawed its way through him, aching to burst into a full grin. When they were past the main hall and far enough down the hallway, Mohinder suddenly pulled on that arm, yanking Sylar back and pushing him into the wall with a sharp smack upon impact.

“Just _what_ do you think you’re doing?!” Mohinder seethed under his breath, eyes furious as they bore into Sylar’s. Sylar could see the tightness in Mohinder’s jaw and the barely noticeable trembling to his muscles straining against their most violent impulses.

“What do I think I’m doing? I _was_ making conversation. Like a normal person.” Sylar replied easily, keeping his tone infuriatingly casual and innocent. He felt Mohinder’s fingers digging deeply into his upper arm, cutting off circulation.

“The last thing I want you doing is making suggestive conversation to my mother. I don’t want her involved in any of this, and I definitely don’t want her knowing who you are!” Mohinder’s voice became louder towards the end, nearly breaking the forceful whisper he was attempting to maintain.

Sylar finally frowned back, eyebrows knitting. He reached with his free arm and grabbed Mohinder’s wrist, gripping just as tightly in return. “What you mean to say is that you don’t want her knowing what _we_ are, because you’re ashamed, and you can’t deal with it.”

The caustic glare Mohinder delivered suddenly felt like acid through his veins, and for an instant Sylar regretted his words. He had tried hard to be understanding, knowing the memories that were surfacing for Mohinder, but even that had its limit; Mohinder shouldn’t have an excuse to treat Sylar poorly, he felt.

“You murdered my father. Do you realize the last time I was in India was for his funeral? How do you expect me to feel?” Mohinder hissed, heart pumping wildly in his chest. He could feel the blood coursing through his face, riled by his anger and what truths Sylar had hit upon.

“Look!” Sylar pushed Mohinder back then, spinning the man around and slamming him forcefully against the wall, pinning him as Mohinder had done only moments ago. “I know that you’re angry at me, that being here reminds you of the things I’ve done, but it doesn’t mean that you can turn on and off what I am to you! It doesn’t work like that. What do you think of when you kiss me, Mohinder? Are you thinking about your father? About the blood on my hands? Or are you thinking about us? About what’s going on between us? I said it before and I’ll say it again: you’re being unfair. Just because you’re dealing with whatever’s going through _your_ head doesn’t mean I’m not doing the same. If I was anyone else, you’d be embarrassed of the way you’re acting!”

Mohinder took in a deep, trembling breath, their brown eyes vying for control and dominance in that silence, even as those words sank in. “Let go of me,” Mohinder spoke coldly, just above a whisper. Sylar’s eyes narrowed in return, and they stood still for several seconds, daring the other to move. “Let go of me, Sylar, or so help me I’ll throw you out of this house.” Mohinder nearly growled the words, and the softening of Sylar’s features behind his dark glare made for a curious sight. Finally Sylar’s grasp eased, and he stepped away from Mohinder.

The darker man gave a soft flick of his wrist, flexing his fingers on the hand Sylar had held so tightly. “I’m going to shower and meet with my accountant. We’ll talk about this when I get back.”

“Before or after coffee with your girlfriend?” Sylar asked flatly. He slipped his hands in his pockets and turned away, crossing the short distance to his bedroom door. He entered silently, but cut off his entrance with an audible slam ofthe door.

Mohinder watched Sylar leave with a grave expression on his face. He had seen Sylar angry before, seen him livid and panicked like that night in Iowa. He had seen the man mildly irritated (though Sylar would never admit it) by men and women who had taken an interest in Mohinder in bars in London. He had even seen Sylar insulted and upset when Mohinder had been furious by his overt display of power in public. But never had Mohinder seen Sylar angry because he was passionate about something, and for that something to be their highly unusual and complicated relationship gave Mohinder an unsettled feeling, along with a slightly guilty one.

Some months back, after the shattered image of Zane had so violently torn open his ability to trust, Mohinder had decided to enclose himself and his emotions in a bubble which few could penetrate. Before that time, Eden had tried to get through to him, but Mohinder had been blinded by his work and unable to make himself reciprocate, to open up wide enough to let it affect him in more than a superficial way. But in time, she, too, had betrayed his trust. Sylar had inflicted a deeper wound, but Eden had added a belated bitterness to an already unpalatable meal.

What goodness Mohinder felt he’d brought with him to this quest had been eradicated in New York. What was left of it remained here, in Chennai, where he hoped to keep it from the dangerous battleground that had become his life. And yet, here Mohinder was, bringing that danger to his doorstep voluntarily. To make matters worse, he feared the changing way he had begun to view Sylar. Being home reminded Mohinder that he’d somehow stopped thinking of Sylar solely as a murderer in the forefront of his mind. Now, Sylar was a lover, and the two images dueled for dominance in his thoughts every moment he allowed ‘Chennai’ and ‘Sylar’ to enter them.

Was the latter more significant now than the former? Was that it? Was he scared that Sylar was important to him, finally? For some reason it had never occurred to Mohinder just how differently he and Sylar probably viewed what they had; Mohinder had forced down his painful memories as far as he could to endure the burden of taking this man on his life’s journey. That journey hadn’t changed, except for who the companion was. But for Sylar, an entire life’s path, an all-encompassing mission for self-actualization, had been given up over the course of two weeks. Something new, revolving around Mohinder, had been embraced instead. The very course of Sylar’s life had changed. Why hadn’t Mohinder foreseen just how serious this really was? Just how terrifying?

Pressing his palms to his face, Mohinder rubbed slowly, taking in a ragged, empty breath. He needed time to think about this, and it wasn’t time he had. Walking slowly down the hall, past the door that had slammed shut on his obstinacy, Mohinder sighed that breath back out. He needed to call Mira before he left.

 

 

“You know, I never thought I’d feel the need to come back here.”

The Haitian moved his gaze to the side, watching the flicker of lights over Bennet’s glasses as the man took a left-hand turn. “If there is one thing we should be prepared for, it is the unexpected,” he replied.

“That doesn’t mean I’m any happier about it,” Bennet murmured, slowing the car to a stop.

The area was not well lit, as it wasn’t meant to be, and the air still carried a chill that persisted in February’s threat. Bennet put the car into park, leaving the engine running and turning the headlights to the brights. The fluorescent circles shone harshly against metal, and the line of identical storage unit doors stood like an army stretching to either side of them. When Bennet stepped out, he took a moment to let his breath steam the air, glancing to his left, then his right. The number 146 stood boldly next to the padlock, and he kept his mouth in an immobile, thin line as he dug into his pocket for the key.

The Haitian exited the car as well, touching the top of his head in a brief rub against the cold. “Even if we have this, we must take the next steps to get anywhere.”

Bennet frowned to himself as he forced the lock, grimacing at its stiffness in the freezing temperature. “That’s usually how it goes, my friend… I thought we might be able to do this an easier way, but Suresh was absolute in his decision not to play Company with us. You’ll have to do that for us instead while he plays house.” Finally, a loud snap sounded, along with the clang of icy alloy. Bennet tugged the padlock loose and dropped it to the ground, bending over to grasp the edges of the handles. He yanked hard, sending the scream of cold metal echoing into the empty air around them.

Squinting a little as light flooded the inside of the unit, the Haitian’s eyes fell over stacks of cardboard boxes, container after container carefully organized and arranged against the walls, a vault of Company history. “Suresh is a smart man. He has not abandoned our cause forever,” was all the Haitian replied.

Bennet’s lips pursed at that, and he entered with that thought circling in his mind. He let his eyes fall over labels, reminiscing, perhaps, on old sins that stared back through elliptical handle holes. He had enough information here to tear the Company asunder by the press, but that had never been his aim. The public eye was a beast that could be bent to any man’s needs, and Bennet had no doubt that any monster he unleashed on them could be turned around just as easily to sink its teeth into him in return.

The storage space was deeper than it appeared, and Bennet walked with a slight echo to his heels, listening as the Haitian followed. The air was musty from its years of stillness, and the smell of old files reminded him of Primatech. He couldn’t help but think of how things might have been different if he had convinced Chandra Suresh to join his cause the first time around. That man might have been easier to control than Mohinder; easier to turn against the Company and use when the time was right. Mohinder, he had thought, would be younger, more easily malleable. Only something more dangerous than Bennet’s goals or the Company had gotten to the man first.

“I don’t understand it, personally.” Bennet began to speak again. His thoughts came more freely when they were his opinion, his complaints. Things he felt were important could not be articulated as easily as he wanted them to. “He’s throwing himself right into the eye of a hurricane. He’s inviting disaster. There’s no telling what sort of repercussions that sort of relationship will have. Sylar’s unpredictable. Out of control. Dangerous. He always will be.”

After more than a month’s time, the Haitian knew this discourse well. Bennet’s frustration over Mohinder’s decision in Iowa had been a source of constant concern for Bennet ever since; the calls Mohinder made every two or three weeks always ended with Bennet’s opinions seeking the Haitian’s affirmation. An affirmation he never really gave. The Haitian let a moment pass, his thoughts collecting, before he finally spoke, face in its usual impassive stance. “There are some people in this world, Noah, who stay by our sides to remind us of who we are, who we aren’t, and who we could be. You and I are not to judge who that person should be. We may not like who Sylar was, those months ago, but you and I do not know who he now is.”

The look Bennet flashed him was at once as accusing as it was ashamed, and he quickly let his own stoic demeanor fall back over his features. “…It’s a risk Mohinder shouldn’t be willing to take.”

“I have never been in love, so I cannot lecture you on the risks of it,” the Haitian said calmly. With that he slipped into silence.

Being reminded of the nature of Mohinder and Sylar’s connection made a tart expression cross Bennet’s lips, as though he’d eaten something sour and the sting still lingered distastefully on his tongue. He wanted to counter that love was not an excuse for everything, but Claire’s face entered his thoughts, and Bennet quickly discarded his words. He knew that hypocrisy was something he had to live with perpetually, but he was unwilling to bring it upon himself at this moment. It was best to simply bury his disapproval for Mohinder and Sylar’s relationship and focus on what was more important: finding the history he had buried.

Once they had reached the back of the storage space, Bennet found what he was looking for: a tall box, slender and standing in the corner. He grabbed it, turning around towards the Haitian as he began to rip at the tape which held it shut. “This is it,” he said simply. Once he’d opened the top Bennet reached inside and pulled out a long tube. He popped the cap off with a thumb and looked up at his companion, whose unemotional expression could only be sensed in the shadows cast from the outside light.

“Let’s have a look,” Bennet said more to himself, turning to stand at the Haitian’s side as he turned the tube over. Giving a tug, the smooth swish of canvas against plastic sounded, and Bennet soon unraveled in his hand a painting the length of his arm’s reach.

The scene depicted was dark, with faint puddles here and there on blue-black concrete. The diagonal lines that converged from the middle of the left hand side and bottom lead from the start of a walkway to the body sprawled across it. It was a man, battered and beaten to the surface of the ground, arms and legs twisted in defeat. His clothing was almost indiscernible, torn open across the back by what looked like an enormous, smoldering burn from which smoke still rose. A female figure stood on the left side of the composition, back to the viewer, form cut off by the canvas’ edge. Blonde hair stood frozen in movement, and her hand extended towards the body, emitting a bright and blinding spark.

“I wouldn’t have thought anything of this before,” Bennet murmured, eyes scanning the surface. “This painting was entrusted to me some time ago… But what good was it then, when the future wasn’t uncertain? Isaac Mendez… what a waste of potential.” Bennet frowned at the face of the fallen man in the canvas, pressed in profile to the wet pavement. Familiar, dangerous, and never more important. “Before we do anything else… we collect these, no matter what the cost,” Bennet confirmed, more to himself than to the Haitian’s firm figure.

**‘1/8’** stood against the white of the lower right hand corner of Isaac’s painting.

The man known as Adam Monroe graced the center.  
  
  


  



End file.
